Chicago

I was looking forward to our last day in Chicago.

My daughter and I had driven my wife, who was asked not to drive during the last month of pregnancy, to Chicago for some training she was to attend. Each of the three days there, my daughter and I would drop off my wife and then spend the day playing tourist. It excited me to show my daughter around town. My only exposure to Chicago had been with my wife ten years prior and in high school before that.

We arrived late Saturday evening, with barely enough time to find dinner and go for a swim. My daughter absolutely loves the pool; a major point when searching out hotels.

Sunday, the three of us toured around on my wife's only day without something to do. We drove to the Shedd Aquarium. Being early April, weather was a consideration. How much so would catch us off guard. We thread our way through the insane traffic of Chicago, parking nearby the aquarium. Wind off lake Michigan whipped about us while we stood in line, outside, waiting to get in. Soon drops of cold rain began pattering about to murmurs in the crowd. The rain intensified, flung by wind, so I rushed back to our car hoping to return with warmer jackets and rain gear. Thunder echoed from buildings as I neared the parking garage. When I returned, laden with gear, my umbrella pushing against wind and rain...it began to snow.
Leaving the Shedd Aquarium, after visiting, presented not traffic, but heavy snow. Wet, heavy snow obscured the roads and even blanked out highway signs.

Monday, my daughter and I dropped my wife at her training and drove back to the hotel so we could swim.

It's as easy as...

So yesterday, I arrived home to find it empty.

They're out practicing, I thought to myself.

I walked down the street, looking for a pregnant woman and little girl on a bicycle; the seemingly too large bicycle helmet making her look like a bobble-head doll.

The streets were empty. I checked the garage and indeed, her bicycle was missing. I started up my car and drove to our nearby park. Not knowing where they were, my mind began reeling. I pictured my daughter shooting out into an intersection just as I drove by. How horribly ironic that she'd learn how to ride, only to be clipped by her own father.

I shook out the emotion, feeling a bit shamed that I'd even consider such a scenario as I turned the corner and pulled into the vicinity of the park. No sooner had I began driving very slowly around the circular city park, that I noticed two young girls riding their bicycles. The bobble-head of one of the girls was unmistakable and I turned the car around to meet my daughter.

"Rob!" her friend yelled to me "Look! she's riding!"

My daughter coasted to an uneven stop next to the curb, her overjoyed smile seeming to encompass the whole of her face. I smiled back, then looked around and beyond for my wife; expecting her to be there so as to give my daughter the starting push.

"Hi Daddy" my daughter said.

Where was my wife?

Her neighborhood friend, unable to control her excitement blurted "...And she doesn't even need a push!"

"Wow! That's FANTASTIC!" I exclaimed, ecstatic at the unexpected surprise.

And to think my daughter had just learned how to ride the day before. I forget how easy it is...

I smile just thinking...

Sunday was slow and tedious. Any plans made fell by the wayside as my wife, daughter and I shuffled around the house listlessly. My daughter and I eventually pushed ourselves outside and decided to go to the park. My wife, pregnant with our second child decided to stay home and rest.

The first truly Spring-like day, Sunday was warm, bright and sunny with rivulets of water wearing away the remaining dirty snow and ice lining street gutters. Several of my daughter's neighborhood friends were outside riding their bikes and soon were invited to the park.

The year before, my first attempt at teaching my daughter to ride her bike had gone awry.
Overly eager, I had let her go too soon though she was not quite ready, and she'd fallen. Nothing I said could sooth her ego or get her back on the bike.

My daughter decided to ride her scooter, but could not keep up as her friends peddled ahead. Abandoning her scooter, she clung to my side and held my hand. She was quiet as she walked, but still defiant; running ahead to stop her friends while I returned the scooter she had dejectedly decided she no longer wanted to bring.

We reached the park and played, sloshing around the sloppy ice rink and watching a torrent of ice melt run it's course into a sewer drain beside the rink. On our way back, I asked my daughter, who had been eying her friends resignedly, about learning to ride.

"Would you like to try riding your bike again?" I started, hoping to draw her out.

"No." she replied; the word edged with finality, but ending with regret.

"Why not, honey?" I was treading on tender territory.

"I dunno."

"Does it scare you?" I asked quietly. It was a question meant for just her and I. The last thing I wanted was to shred her already tattered confidence regarding bicycles by exposing her fears publicly. Granted, her friends were half way around the park, from us, but tell that to a seven-year old.

"...yes." It came out as a whisper.

"I know last time was really scary. We should try again" I said, "and this time we won't do anything until you tell me you're ready".

"She's going too far ahead" my daughter said, changing the topic. She pointed ahead to the other girls growing distance. I called to her friends to wait for us and they paused. My daughter and I continued walking hand in hand and our conversation rotated to other topics.

Halfway between the park and home, my daughter startled me.

"When we get home, I want to try again" she stated unequivocally watching her two friends biking up ahead.

"OK." I replied, unsure how to respond "That's awesome".

"And I want to practice each day, after school." she continued.

"...OK" I said, encouraged.

As we neared our house, it became obvious I had my own issues to resolve. The closer we came, the more I feared putting her on the bicycle again. I felt so guilty and responsible for failing her last time. She had trusted in me and I'd failed her. Part of me feared failing again, crushing her trust in me to make things right. I'd watched the neighborhood children zipping around and had assumed it was the father's who had taught them.

The other part of me knew I wanted to make things right.

Reaching home, we parted ways with her friends and went inside to shed our winter gear in favor of tennis. When my wife heard of our plans, she decided to join us. I pulled my daughter's bike from the garage and removed the training wheels. My daughter's excitement became palpable and overtook any evident fear.

Our neighborhood is a constant cluster of activity. My daughter's friends were riding around the cul-de-sac at the end of the block as their father worked on his motorcycle in the driveway. Another neighbor played basketball with his young boys. Cars are a frequent concern. My daughter and I brought out her bike and rolled it towards the cul de sac. My wife had worried that her friends on their bicycles might distract my daughter. I brought my daughter's bike to a spot and my daughter climbed on.

"How're we doing?" I asked her.

"Good" she replied, a bit nervous.

She struggled keeping the bike upright.

"Try to find your balance" I encouraged. "Let me know when you're ready"

"I will" she said pausing for a moment, "OK, I"m ready".

Holding onto the back of her seat, I began pushing her along.

"Pedal fast" I said breathlessly. I'm not in very good shape and feared that I might run out of energy and stumble. She began pedaling faster. We continued and I held on to keep her balance, afraid to let go lest she crash right out of the starting gate. We splashed through a large puddle and turned into the cul de sac.

"OK...stop" I wheezed, bringing her to a slow halt. We turned around and started again. I could feel the burn in my legs and lungs. We reached the exit for the cul de sac and met up with my wife, who looked at me oddly.

"Maybe you shouldn't do this in the cul de sac" she offered. "It's hard to get momentum when you have to turn all the time. Just go straight down the street." This seemed really obvious, but I hadn't thought of it, so I nodded and brought my daughter to a starting spot before the puddle and aimed her bike down the street towards our house.

"Honey, watch down the street as you peddle. "My wife told my daughter "don't watch yourself peddle." I began wondering why I was doing this and not my wife. She seemed to have the training down, but then I remembered the baby.

My daughter and I began again and I found myself struggling not only to keep up, but to let go. We made several more passes, ending up in front of my neighbor working on his motorcycle. My wife had joined him to watch us. I stretched my back and noticed as I paused to catch my breath that my neighbor was making a scissor-cutting motion with his fingers; as if to tell me cut her loose.

"Ready?" I asked my daughter, frowning.

"Yea." she replied looking at me for cues.

"Here we go" I smiled, and we started another run down the street. We built up speed

"Pedal fast" I called, " I'm going to let go. Watch your balance."

I let go and it felt like my heart skipped. She wobbled and wove back and forth unsteadily.

And then she rode on her own.

No Man's Zone or Old Man's Zone, take your pick

My seven-year old daughter and I were playing hallway soccer as winter stormed outside. We had closed the doors to the bathroom and two bedrooms; effectively creating a dead end to the hallway. I stood at the opposite end where the hallway met the living room. My daughter defended the dead end. We had quickly agreed that I would not advance past a certain point. She also would not kick the ball beyond one of the doors. This turned a space of the hallway into a no-man zone.

With few rules we were basically just kicking the little soft and plush ball back and forth, giggling.

Every few kicks one of us would either make the ball go airborne or it'd sail into the living room; sending me chasing under furniture. I returned from the hallway at a point and lamely kicked launched the ball with a socked foot.

It landed in the space where none could enter.

"Oh, daddy," my daughter giggled "You sent the ball into the Old Man's Zone"

Today

I met with my advisor today for Metro State. I'm planning on finishing my schooling with a degree in technical writing.

Catheters and Cat litter...

I was cooking in the kitchen. It wasn't one of my better nights for cooking. After a full day of installing home-made hardware for home sewn window shades, I was rushing to get food made. My wife and daughter were watching TV in our living room when I heard -

"Why is that commercial selling cat litter?" My daughter wondered aloud.

"No, honey, it's not for cat litter " my wife corrected. "it's a commercial for a catheter".

All Writer's need an editor

Tonight, after my wife and young daughter returned from seeing a movie, my daughter snuggled in next to me on the couch where I was writing.

"What are you doing Daddy?" she asked.

"Writing in my blog," I said.

"What's a blog?"

"It's like a journal," my wife answered as she entered the living room and sat beside my daughter and me.

"Would you like me to read some of what I've written?" I asked my daughter.

"Sure," my seven year-old replied with uncertainty.

I searched for posts involving my daughter and began to read through several. My little audience seemed to enjoy my stories and I began wondering what my wife thought of my writing and the personal vignettes into my daughter's life.

"Daddy," my daughter said bringing me back to present, "Annabelle – who's Annabelle?"

"What?" I asked.

"There wasn't anyone named Annabelle in my class," my daughter explained.

In the post I was reading, I had recounted something my daughter had said about a previous classmate.

"You told me her name was Annabelle," I countered defensively.

"I don't know anyone named Annabelle," she said. "Do you mean Annalise?"

"Uh..."

"Yea, you must mean Annalise Honey," my wife offered with a smirk.

"Oh. Ok." I said and continued on reading the story.

"You have to change it," my daughter stopped me and pointed to my laptop, "You have to fix it."

"Uh," I began. "OK. Sure."

Dutifully I edited out Annabelle's existence and replaced her with Annalise. Satisfied, my daughter allowed me to continue and I finished reading the story aloud.

Then, my wife asked, "What is 'The Easter Bunny is a Vegetarian' about?" She was reading other stories to herself. I answered by reading aloud a blog post about my wife and daughter planting sun flower seeds for Easter.

"They were carrot seeds, not sun flower seeds," my daughter corrected.

"What?" I stopped again and stared at my daughter.

"Pays to have an editor," my wife laughed.

green thumb, sore thumb

I listened to my daughter tonight, as she read her homework to my wife; in Spanish. I was having a difficult evening and my daughter was not happy with me for forcing her to finish her homework.

As she switched between scowling at me and reading, I realized how skittish parenting is. We start out hopeful, even eager to raise our children well. It's not that different from gardening. The parallels and analogies work well.

Once our plant begins it's journey out of the soil, we can only care for it, guiding it to a healthy maturity. Hopefully, the plant will ripen, ending in the separation from the vine to whatever end lies ahead.

The problem is that life often interferes with our designs. Sometimes the plant is weakened by little sun and too much cloudy weather. Sometimes they rot from too much care or improper care. We strive to provide loads of sun so that they thrive.

The point is - we have no way of telling how they will grow. Only that they will. We can only love them while we have them and let them go when they are ready. Force them off the vine too early, and I believe they will falter. Keep them to long and they will wither on the vine.

I gazed at my daughter, but was really thinking inward, wincing at my self-absorbed, detached manner and wondering how my depression was affecting her growth. My daughter nuzzled into my wife as she read her homework. My wife nodded and complimented my daughter on a particular word, gently correcting as she did; sounding just the right tone.

"Nicely done, honey" I offered. The sound of my voice seemed insincere and contrite from my perch across the room.

I only hope my wife's sunshine can balance out my dreary, grey clouds.

struggling...

I picture myself, sitting upon my little ledge. The rocky cliff soars above and disappears in the distance around me. With my knees drawn in, I have little purchase to move around.

In front of me dangles a vine. It represents opportunity and hope. When I was younger, it had swung my way once, maybe twice. It is close enough to see but too far to reach.

Just out of reach, it seems.

I picture myself, watching the vine. It has not moved for many years. I now sit here, in my mid-life wondering why I hadn't jumped at the vine when I was younger. I understand that the rope had swung out of nowhere when I was not ready. I watched it, fearful of missing and falling. Fearful of catching it and not knowing what to expect. Fearful. I watched it go, not fully understanding it might not return. Youth was a time to believe. Midlife is a time to doubt. Old age might be a time to know.

I cannot blame anyone but myself and even not myself. No one told me to grab the vine when it came my way. There was no one to help. No one to ask.
I cannot feel bad for myself. I had my chance. We all do. Some of us expect the vine and some even wait for it. Some know what to expect and some even expect to know.

It is our lot, is it not. We all begin, believing we see everything around us. Later we begin to understand that we really did not see. We try to teach those after us, but they believe they see everything and since what we tell them is not seen it is not believed.

I watch the vine. It has not moved for many years. I do not believe it will move again. I only can wait and watch the vine reviewing what I've missed.

Sleeptime politics

My wife and I have allowed my daughter to sleep with us in our bed for sometime now. My daughter has her own bed, of course. It's a nice loft bed from Ikea. I believe she stays with us partly because she doesn't like sleeping alone, for fear of nightmares. Our bed is also bigger and plushier than hers.

Even in our king sized bed, I sleep poorly when my daughter is with us. She has a tornadic tendency for splaying her arms and legs about. Often, I surface from slumber to find my daughter, sleeping between my wife and I, has burrowed into my wife's back while kneeing me in mine.

So it was with profound relief when my daughter began laying on her side with one leg loosely draped across me.

Until, still asleep, she used that leg for leverage as she stretched as if dreaming...and knee'd me in the lower back with her other leg.

Hot potato for one

My cell phone is sitting forlorn in my jacket pocket which is hanging on a peg. It is only several rooms distant, but that seems very far and the cell phone a heavy burden to haul back to my cozy chair and sunny window.

I have to call my dad to let him know that we are expecting a girl in May.

It dawned on me this morning, after I checked my email and found my brother had sent me my father's phone number; which I'd emailed him for.

I've not spoken with my father for almost a year; well maybe half a year.

On my way to get the phone, another realization dawned upon me. I needed to prepare the slow-cooked dinner for tonight. You see, I go to a men's therapy group on Wednesdays; effectively stranding my pregnant wife and young daughter without food. My wife is nauseous around cooking smells and my daughter is only seven.

I hold my parents responsible - possibly unfairly - for my seemingly messed up life. My childhood was a normal one by most regards, but it lacked something vital; the active involvement of my parents.

I prepare dinner and clean up. The dreadful notion of calling clings to me like the stink from the onions I had just chopped. I absentmindedly return to the living room, not sure what to do next, but unconsciously almost frantic to find some way to avoid the obvious.

My father welds shame like a scalpel. I know that my emotions of just anger and hurt will be cast aside leaving me feeling ashamed for ignoring him for so long. He is mostly blind and living by himself in assisted housing in Duluth.

Echos of my wife saying "He hasn't called you either." circle around. Odd, isn't it, that I passively defended him by replying "But I haven't called him either."

I pick up the living room a bit and discover the book of baby names we'd just bought. I settle in my chair and start perusing names.

Zilla...definitely not...

Whilhelmina...noooo...

Colette...I like...

I bump the laptop I'm now writing on that was beside me and my dad's phone number appears, where I'd left it on the screen.

Damn...

I'd tried calling several times in the past days, but each number I had lying around was wrong. We had sent out Christmas cards to my family, but left out the christmas letter mentioning my soon-to-be new daughter; thinking it would be an insult to find out in a letter and not personally.

Putting down the baby name book, I decide to write my feelings and see if it helps. Like weeping the wound of toxins I find myself immersed in tangled emotions.

It's like playing hot potato, by myself, with the cell phone. I picture myself tossing it away quickly, watching it skitter across the dining room floor and bump into the far wall. I wait to have it tossed back to me whether I want it or not. But nothing happens.

Damn I say, walking over to pick it up.

Skeletons and marshmellows

As I sat alone in our living room lit by one standing lamp, late tonight, I heard the door to our bedroom close. The ghostly visage of my daughter appeared down the hallway and she shuffled up to my chair; wiping sleep from her eyes.

"what's wrong honey?" I asked

Without another word, she crawled into my lap and snuggled against me.

"Nightmares again, eh?

"I don wanna talk about it" she murmured sleepily.

For some time now, she has struggled with nightmares. She is an inquisitive, but shy and demur seven year old. Around family, she is the active, vivacious little force in our family. But in public, she becomes attached to my wife or I and seems afraid of the world. I believe her nightmares to be the "second hand smoke" of her emotional growth. As she works through her life, learning and struggling with the world, the makeup of her nightmares shows what she is concerned about; her fears and doubts. While I keep watch for signs that something serious is amiss, I've found none.

She is just a growing seven year old girl in a difficult world.

I cover her with my blanket as she sits on my lap and wedges her toes between my legs and cozily under one thigh. I tuck the blanket around her shoulders and around her neck as she nuzzles against my shoulder. We sit for several moments quietly.

"Did we watch something too scary tonight?" I say, hoping to draw her out.

"No." she yawns

She normally declines to tell me what her nightmare about. Her logic is that if she tells me, when she goes back to sleep she'll have the same nightmare for sure; as if I'm the kicker to prolonging them.

"They're not fun, huh?"

"No, I hate them." she replies sleepily and emphatically.

"Remember that you have all the power to stop them. When you go back to sleep, just change your dream to something you like." I have tried to teach her how to control her nightmares the same way I learned to and I know I'm not saying it in a way she understands.

"When you have a nightmare, just go back to sleep and..." I start

"I've tried it a billion times and I can't do it." she says petulantly, cutting me off.

"I'm sure you can." I counter lamely.

"No I can't."

We sit for a bit more as I caress her hair, silently hoping she'll fall back to sleep and I can avoid feeling useless and unable to help her.

"I wish I could do something to help. It gets easier as you get older. Thing will start to make more sense and won't be as scary." I say wondering if I even believe it myself. I suddenly remember the nightmares I had as a child; and how terribly scary they seemed - and still feel at times.

"I used to have nightmares when I was a boy, too." I add, wondering if I should tell her one, but decide it might only make things worse.

"Are you scared by something?" I try again.

"No..." She replies "it was at the Science Museum."

I am pleased she confided in me, but perplexed at what I said that somehow made her feel safe enough to share.

"There was a skeleton that flew down and killed me." she said, sounding as if it had been all to real for her.

And it suddenly became clear to me.

My wife, daughter and I had visited the Science Museum of Minnesota today to see an exhibit combining the CSI who-dunnit TV shows with real forensics. Everyone who toured, got to solve a mystery. No wonder she was having nightmares. Even as we wandered about figuring out the pretend murder case, I wondered if my daughter was too young for this; whether it was healthy for a seven year old to be learning about bullet fragments in skulls and blood spatter patterns.

"What if you told the skeleton 'leave me alone' ?"

"I can't do it." she seemed so resigned and powerless. I needed to give her the power somehow. I looked to my laptop sitting on the table beside us and began googling children and nightmares. I found an article on Athealth.com; where the author discussed the topic and gave some suggestions.

I found one section I thought might be especially good and read it back to her; tracing the words with my finger as I read. "...Using role playing and fantasy rehearsals, parents can help their children assert their magical powers and tame their nightmares. New endings for dreams can be created so that falling dreams can become floating dreams and chase dreams end with the capture of the villain..."

I looked at my daughter and she was following what I was reading. I continued on to an example about a little girls' nightmare and how the father gave the girl ideas on how to change her nightmare.

hmmm

"So, next time you go to sleep, try this. don't wait to go back into the nightmare. Picture yourself in the nightmare, where you left off, but now...look down and notice that you are wearing magician's robes." I said, raising my eyebrows when I mention the robes.

"Look at your hands" I continued, raising my hands as if I were cupping something. "Oh...there's powerful magic glowing in your hands"

She was staring at my hands, seeing the magic my hands, a smile on her face.

"When that skeleton shows up you just hit him with the magic. POOF! and he disappears."

"he's really big" she counters

"So you hit him with your magic and then..." I pause for effect. "You pull out your magic wand"

I whip out a imaginary wand and wave it about in my hand.

"You zap him!"

"He came down from the ceiling..." she says. I can just imagine her trying to find some hole in what I'm saying.

I unfold an imaginary umbrella over our heads.

"Just put up your umbrella and he bounces off".

I can see she's thinking now. Her eyes say to me this just might work.

"Time for bed" I say, picking her up. I carry her back into our bedroom, where she is luckily sleeping between my wife and I tonight.

As I tuck her in, she grins up at me.

"I'm gonna hit him with marshmellows. He hates marshmellows"

Crusty Rolos

A year ago, we decided to get another cat. Keisha, our old fat white cat seemed lonely. My daughter named the new little kitten Lizzie B after one of her then favorite book series.

Lizzie has since grown into a wonderfully mischievous cat. She loves to cuddle; making us very happy to have found her. Though, no sooner does she have you murmuring wistful nothings to her, shes off and scratching the crap out of a favorite chair.

"Lizzie!"

I arrived home this last Monday. As usual, my wife, daughter and I sat down for dinner.

"The cats don't like you anymore" My daughter said taking a sip of water. Her little girl voice had that wagging her finger at me sound to it.

"What?" I said

"Your bathroom has cat poop all over it" My wife added. "One of the cats must be pretty angry with you."

My bathroom? Part of me was irritated that our downstairs bathroom over time became "my" bathroom. Granted, I did have all of my clothing closeted there and I took my shower there. Yet why didn't we call the upstairs bathroom "theirs"? Like parents are counseled regarding starting un-winable arguments with children... pick your battles I thought.

Later, I checked the downstairs bathroom. I have always been a messy person. Clothes lay in a pile in front of the closet; as if I'd struggled to change my clothes and missed hanging them in the closet by inches. By god if there weren't little balls of cat poop strewn -no strategically placed - all over the place. What control I thought. Grumbling to myself, I picked up cat poop with paper toweling and tossed any suspect clothing into the wash.

It perplexed me why one of our cats would be pissed at me. Their litter box had just been cleaned the day before and they had food and water.

The next day I went to work. After hanging up my jacket and getting a cup of coffee I went over my emails. The regular start to my day. At one point, I wandered about the office, looking for someone about something, jingling my keys in my pocket...

And found what felt like a singular crusty Rolos candy. I pulled it out; rolling it in my finger tips and tried to puzzle when I'd left a chocolate kiss in my pocket too long.

...Oh man...

Poor Duck

I awoke, last night, to my daughter crying. Thinking it was a periodic nightmare, I climbed out of bed and made my way to her room. Earlier this year, we put together a loft bed, that my wife and my daughter had purchased last year. It's the kind with a desk beneath the bed, overhead. I'm sure it will come in handy when she goes off to college fourteen years from now. The bed is so high, that only my six year old daughter can sit up in bed. I have learned - beware the popcorn ceiling!

"What's wrong honey." I asked, climbing up the metal ladder to her bed.

I began crawling towards her, but stopped. Her comforter was all wet.

"Why is your comforter all wet?" I asked. The air above her bed had a sort of spicy, rankness to it.

"I threw up" she said, inbetween sobs.

"Oh honey..." I sympathized, quietly lifting my hands off the surface.

I pulled the comforter towards me, bundling it up so I could bring it down to wash. I had thought changing the sheets on a loft bed was difficult. It was nothing compared with trying to man-handle a wet, possibly laden, comforter down a small metal ladder.

I succeeded and carefully laid the comforter on her floor. I rushed out to the kitchen to get her the "bedside companion" - Tupperware. I've always wondered what is the best shape for such a task; square? circular? shallow or deep dish? I grabbed a bowl shaped lettuce keeper and flew back to my daughter's room.

"Hold on honey, I'm on my way" I blurted as I entered her room; hoping to sound reassuring.

I checked her other blankets and they seemed OK. My daughter was curled up into a ball, moaning to herself. I began to worry that maybe it was something worse.

"how are you feeling?" I asked tenderly. I am so skillful at this.

"My tummy hurts" she said as she burst into sobs again, moaning.

"Oh honey." I continued. I caressed the hair out of her eyes and checked her temperature. "how long have you been throwing up?"

"All night, I think" she said.

All night! I thought. Egad!

"Can you get me a Kleenex?" she asked.

I rushed back down and went to get her a little Seven-Up, warm washcloth and a Kleenex. I hurried back and set down the pop on her dresser. Climbing up, I offered her the washcloth.

"Where's the Kleenex?" she said.

Oh man! I forgot the one thing she asked for. Scurrying back down, I rushed out for Kleenex. As I did, I heard that sound that no one likes to hear. I detoured back to the kitchen to get a clean Tupperware. Luckily we had another green bowl-shaped lettuce keeper.

After I switched Tupperware and she'd cleaned up a bit, I grabbed several clean blankets and placed a bath towel over her pillows, for her to rest her head on. We lay a bit. I cuddled her up in the warm blankets and reassured her it would be all right. I offered to read to her, and climbed down. I sat in the chair in her room; lit by a small light.

I began reading one of her "Lizzie B. Jones" books.

"I hate you tummy" she declared; half angry, half tired.

"Oh, I'm so sorry honey. it will get better. I know it's tough, but soon you'll feel better." I reassured her. I could tell she detested being sick.

Half a chapter later, her little, drowsy girl voice murmered one more time "I don't like this. I hate you tummy"

Then she slept.

I am So Busted...

My daughter and I were driving this morning, on our way to her school. Recently she had lost her first tooth. The next night she had received a golden Dollar coin from "The Tooth Fairy".

"Dad, are there Bee people? She asked from her booster perch in the back seat.

"Bee people?" I replied, not quite sure what she was asking or whether I'd heard it correctly.

"Yea, are Bees people? she continued, " and they can fly right?"

I was driving 65 miles per hour on the Freeway, changing lanes...and she had me completely turned around.

"Bees aren't people, honey" I stated not so assuredly. I was just merging into the right lane, switching with both the car in front of me and one behind. Like some vehicular ballet, as I moved into my lane, they both swapped lanes with me. "Bees are animals...well... insects."

"Bees aren't people?" she asked me quizzically.

"No, Bees are insects. Just like Flies and Ants; that sort of thing." Ah...now I was back on track. I was explaining how things worked to my daughter and traffic had smoothed out. I was in the far right lane and approaching my exit. We were making good time.

"But Fairies can fly." she said, laying out her imaginary line, waiting for a bite.

"There are no such things as Fairies, honey." I said still believing that we were actually talking about Bees,

Oh, and look at that. My daughter had caught something!

She began reeling me in.

"What about the Tooth Fairy?" she queried me. "And what about the Pacifier Fairy? They're real, right?".

My wife had come up with the brilliant idea of convincing my daughter, when she was younger, that she could "trade" in her pacifiers for a toy. She had only to tie them, with ribbon, to the branches of a tree hanging over our deck and the Pacifier Fairy would take them, leaving her a gift.

I was SO busted. She had feigned with a left Are-Bees-People-Daddy. I'd followed, true to form, and she'd laid me open with a skill beyond her years.

"Oh..uh" I stumbled.

Think Rob, think.

"Those Fairies are real, honey. I've just never...seen...them...before." I said lamely.

Almost as if she were toying with me, she had unknowingly set me up, watched as I blundered into the trap, and then just when she had me and could do as she wished...she let me go.

"Yea, Fairies live in the Sky." she recounted, "They have to be able to fly so they can go home."

"You are right, honey". I knew somewhere someone was keeping track of all the misleading, information I was spewing my daughter's way...and it wasn't me. One day, she'll deftly open me up again and I might just end up eating crow.

Losing Teeth

So my daughter lost her first tooth yesterday. I arrived to pick her up from school. They were outside of their daycare room playing with a homemade Hoolahoop that one of the parents had given to the class. My daughter saw me and whipped over to proudly show me the little gap in the bottom front of her teeth.

"When did it come out?" I asked.

"During Senior Swenson's class" she smiled, probing the void with a finger. She handed me the little Tupperware container which held her tooth.

I opened it up and peeked inside, sort of expecting to see this immense white thing. It was tiny! I closed it up, smiled at her and gave her a warm hug of congratulations.

She had watched so many of her classmates show off their lost teeth; hoping it would be her turn next. Today was her day. She gleefully displayed her prize and with childhood drama regaled her journey to anyone in close proximity.

As we drove home, though, my daughter spoke of her classmate and friend, Analise.

"Analise was sad today." she said quietly

"why?" I asked.

"She hasn't lost her first tooth yet. She's afraid that she'll be the last in the class to lose her tooth." my daughter said

"Oh." I replied, lost with what to say.

"Today she watched me with my tooth and was sad. " she stated introspectively. Through the rear view mirror, I watched my daughter grow emotionally as she looked thoughtfully out the side window.

I decided not to say more and let her be with her feelings.

A little ways from our house, she and I were talking more about her day.

"So you lost your tooth in Senior Swenson's class?" I asked, hoping for more details. For some reason, I had the impression that her teacher had helped her with her tooth.

"Yea, it was in his class." she said matter of factly "I was playing with it. So I just twisted and pulled and it came out."

Images of her sitting in her kindergarten chair, concentration on her face as she pulled her tooth with an audible 'Pop!' flooded over me as I drove.

Too much information I thought. Then out of nothing came my own long forgotten memory.
I was young and in some class. My tooth was loose and I was playing with it absentmindedly. I myself twisted it and felt no pain. Suddenly a little twang of tension and the tooth was in my hand.

The rest of the trip was spent in mutual introspective silence.

Hanging Chads

My daughter has been wishing for a missing tooth for most of the year. Periodically, my daughter would lament over her lack of missing teeth

"Is my tooth loose, daddy?" she'd say to me, directing my attention to her open mouth; her little finger pushing and pulling at one of her front teeth.

"uh...I..." I'd reply as I zoomed in for a closer look "well, it seems solid, but who knows. maybe soon".

Invariably, she'd pout a bit looking back to one of her classmates. The classmate would smile, showing off a gaping hole in the grille of her mouth.

I now know the source of my daughter's concern.

This went on for some time until recently when we discovered that my daughter did indeed have her first loose tooth. At that point she began noticing it daily. More over, we began getting daily, even multiple daily reports.

"Daddy! look, my toof is getting looser" my daughter would gush over her finger, during dinner.

"Hey! that's great!" I'd say, my words dying off some at the end as I watching her gum move as she wriggled the tooth back and forth. it felt as if someone were trying to wrest a white gravestone from the ground. Weeds, disturbed grass and dirt bulging at the base as they pushed the stone forward and then heaved it backwards.

Yesterday, her tooth became very loose. So much that she began worrying whether she'd swallow it, etc. Today, she and I did our usual school run. As I dropped her off, I told her teacher that my daughter had a very loose tooth and that I'd brought a lidded cup in the case that it came out today, etc.

I looked over to my daughter who was now proudly displaying her loose tooth. which was hinged down over her bottom lip; perpendicular to rest of her teeth. It reminded me of a drawbridge set in a great white wall that had been lowered over the puffy pink moat.

I kissed the top of my daughter's head, said a quick goodbye - and escaped.

Easter Bunny's a vegetarian

Yesterday was Easter. My six year old daughter and my wife replanted a carrot seed that my daughter was given at school. As they were potting the two little green buds, my daughter stopped for a moment.

"I think we should move my plant higher." she mused to my wife, looking up towards the fireplace mantle above.

"why honey?" my wife replied.

"The Easter Bunny might eat my plant" said my daughter as she caressed the tender green shoot; a single tiny leaf sticking out from the tip.

It's Spring!

OK, today is the first day of Spring. It started at something like 12:40am. In loverly Minnesota, we get our first day of Spring, about 8 hours of sunshine...then it's supposed to snow tonight. We're in for a frigging snowstorm!

Granted, it should melt by this Sunday.

This morning, my daughter was taking a shower in our downstairs bathroom. I've set it up so that she's safe and monitored, so I usually don't worry - and I trust her to be careful. My wife and I were upstairs making lunches and chatting. My wife had the radio on, listening to her favorite morning show.

Suddenly, she hissed "Quiet!" seriousness flaring on her features. Her ear was cocked towards the downstairs doorway like one of those hunting dogs on the scent; intent for a signal.

"What?" I exclaimed

"Is she crying?!" she said "turn off the radio!"

I hurried over to the radio and turned it off. Silence engulfed our kitchen as I strained to hear sounds of my daughter crying.

Instead of crying, my wife barked out in laughter.

"She's singing to her barbies '...Do you like my booty?' and giggling".

I could hear my daughter's wonderful little girl laughter and knew it was ok.

Crinkles

It's become a tradition between my daughter and I.

After school, weather permitting, she and I run over to the little playground across the street from her school. We play chase and I let her win. What sort of beast would I be, if I always won against a six year old? Of course, at times, she wins hands down.

smart kid.

When six p.m. was always dark and freezing bitter cold outside, we just went home. Now that we are in the waning part of Winter, she and I have started playing out side again. I find it a wonderful father and daughter time together.

She loves to stomp on those crispy, crackly edges of snowbanks where sunshine or warmer weather have eroded from beneath. There is something that salves the soul when you and your child wander about crunching little shelves of ice.